


I'm a Stranger Here Myself

by Draycevixen



Category: Life on Mars (UK), The Time Machine
Genre: Crossover, Literary pastiche, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-30
Updated: 2009-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-04 00:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draycevixen/pseuds/Draycevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story was written for the 2008 Ficathon of the Lifein1973 community on livejournal.</p><p>The prompt was: Time travel, unreliable narration, minor characters (like Leonard! or Gwen!) being given some prominence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm a Stranger Here Myself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Loz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/gifts).



.

 

I recall with great clarity the strange events that occurred on that Wednesday, the 24th day of January, 1973... Although it is probably best that I begin at the beginning.

 

Having had to endure the lack of faith in me demonstrated by my friends, I had determined to continue my travels, packing a knapsack with suitable provisions, being sure to prepare my camera so that this time I might provide photographic evidence to the doubting Thomases in question.

Having stowed my belongings in the side pocket of my conveyance, I had caught myself playing with the ends of my silk tie while pondering my destination, where to go exactly, and when. My ruminations were interrupted by my housekeeper rapping loudly upon my laboratory door to inform me that one of my friends had returned and demanded to see me.

Said friend had been horrified to learn of my immediate plans and had spent the next thirty minutes attempting to dissuade me. Once he finally realized that it would not be possible, we had toasted each other with a glass of a rather fine Madeira, and I had walked him outside to say our farewells. It was here, out in the middle of the road in front of my residence, rather than back in my laboratory, that my next great journey was to begin. As I stepped blindly backward, I was trampled underfoot by a runaway carriage.

 

I woke up behind what appeared to be the navigation apparatus of the strangest carriage I had ever seen. I was later to discover that said carriage was called a "Ford Capri."

My reverie was disturbed by the arrival of a rather aggravated constable, who, despite his somewhat unfamiliar uniform, was immediately identifiable as such by his Custodian's hat. His abrupt "you can't park here," was delivered in such Northern tones that I was immediately aware that I was no longer in London's environs. Staggering from the Capri, understandably dazed from my recent close acquaintance with a horse's hooves, I must have looked to be in a state of public drunkenness, as the constable then demanded to see some form of identification.

As I reached for my warrant from Her Majesty's government, I was surprised to find in its place a small leather wallet which I handed over in a daze. Furthermore, in the process of handing it over, I cannot begin to explain the degree of my astonishment at finding my clothing changed to reflect my current circumstances, being manufactured entirely from a fabric I had never seen before. It seemed in no way to be an improvement on cotton, wool and silk, my initial observation being that said material was inclined to collect static electricity. {Notations about said material will be attached when I have had the opportunity to conduct further experiments. Labels within the articles of clothing identify it only as "Polyester"}. There was only one familiar element in my present vestments, an anchor to my own reality, said anchor being my father's pocket watch that I turned over and over with nervous fingers inside my right trouser pocket.

"We've been expecting you, Doctor Spear."

_Doctor Spear?_ As I gathered my wits to correct the constable he handed back the wallet and the papers that had been contained therein and I was shocked to read identification papers proclaiming that I was, in fact, one Oswald Spear, truly a name not bestowed upon me by my parents, and that I was a pathologist transferred to Manchester from Hyde.

Not wishing to draw undue attention to myself, or to spark any alarm as to how I may have come into possession of Doctor Spear's papers, I allowed the deception to continue.

I was conducted into one of the ugliest buildings I have ever seen, soulless and colourless, constructed wholly of concrete, steel and glass, where I was left in the custody of a female constable, one Phyllis Dobbs {further notations on the phenomena of women usurping traditional male occupations will follow}. Miss Dobbs is a formidable presence, the reigning terror of young constables, and yet I find her presence oddly comforting. She reminds me very much of my own housekeeper, Mrs. Wells, all acidic tongue and sensible shoes, being merely an armour that protects a soft and tender heart.

Together, Miss Dobbs and I descended into the basement. There I was introduced to my assistants, or rather Oswald Spear's intended assistants, and was relieved over the next few hours to discover that the duties associated with such an office, while unpleasant and objectionable to some, were nothing of the sort to a learned man of science. A machine after all is a machine, whether made by God or man, and I was relieved to find my laboratory well stocked with reference books.

At the end of a rather awkward afternoon, one of my assistants was kind enough to convey me to my new, and hopefully temporary, residence a small box like place located inside yet another gruesome concrete structure.

 

oo0oo

 

As the days wore on, I was to form a great distaste for this particular time and place in history. What had become of the manners that England had once been so renowned for? What catastrophic events could possibly have occurred to bring about such a decline in England's fortunes? I now knew myself to be marooned in the year 1973, but what of the historical events that had shaped this current age? I was in no position to openly question my new colleagues without arousing suspicion, so instead I asked for the location of the nearest library. I spent several evenings there reading history books and old newspapers only to discover further evidence of how mankind is seemingly doomed to repeat its mistakes. It was with a very heavy heart indeed that I returned to my basement laboratory every day to witness the cost of these mistakes illustrated in wasted human lives.

During my long lonely evenings I pondered what had brought me to this place. My previous travels had all been in my own conveyance and that, as far as I knew, was still in my laboratory in London. I remembered being struck by the carriage, but had no memory after that prior to waking up in the Ford Capri. I had very little else to distract my active mind. There was something in my new home called a "telly." I had only ventured to turn it on once, when it was showing something called _It's a Knockout!_. Faced with this further evidence of the decline of English society I had switched it off after only ten minutes and never bothered to switch it on again. In fact, apart from a sometimes troubling impression of a child's muffled voice drifting from the direction of the telly, I had never given it another thought.

 

oo0oo

 

I was astonished to learn that a Manchester police station in 1973 was still functionally little more than a fiefdom, our lord and master being one Detective Chief Inspector Gene Hunt. I remember being rendered speechless after our first meeting. While my prior experience with the constabulary had of course revealed them to be men from working class backgrounds, I had never met one of their officers who was not at least from the middle classes. Yet here was DCI Hunt, as close to a Viking incarnate as one was ever likely to meet in their life time, spewing invective at all and sundry, more often than not in a state of mild intoxication. {Notations will follow on the decline in the English class system} It was a matter of several weeks before I was able to see past my own prejudices enough to admit that what DCI Hunt lacked in education and manners were more than compensated for by his ability to inspire and lead his men, his God given instincts and his commitment to his city and to the task at hand, namely stopping criminal activity.

 

oo0oo

 

As the days turned into weeks, I divided my time between my work at the police station and my plan to build a new conveyance. For this purpose I had cleared a large space at the back of one of the laboratory store cupboards and appropriated the only key. The work was slow going and I was astonished by how rare and expensive many of the necessary elements now were. I had to resort to scouring rather run down "antique" shops on the weekends in order to find a large enough quantity of ivory and brass for my purposes at prices I could actually afford to purchase.

My days became a predictable blend of examining the dead to reveal their secrets while concealing my own secrets at all costs. As a man of science, I was fully cognisant of the risks inherent in their finding out that I did not belong in 1973. Not least of which would be my almost certainly being committed to an lunatic asylum for even daring to suggest that such a thing were possible. England had certainly not changed that much.

 

oo0oo

 

Nothing stays the same forever, believe me when I say that as I can testify to this fact personally, and the day came when someone arrived to challenge the order of our fiefdom, that someone being in the form of the new Detective Inspector, Sam Tyler. Despite being fascinated by the tales that circulated of him bearding DCI Hunt in his own den (I must admit now to a rather fanciful notion of St. George and the Dragon), I made it my personal policy to avoid him for as long as was humanly possible, having heard that he was from Hyde. I lived in fear of his meeting me and declaring with pointed finger "that's not Oswald Spear, arrest that imposter immediately!"

We were in fact destined to have our first meeting over an open drawer in the morgue. DI Tyler appeared to be staring at me a little too closely, but the pointed finger of accusation was never raised. I was admittedly, somewhat distracted, as I could have sworn I heard the familiar voice of my dear friend emerging from the music box my assistants referred to only as a "Tranny." As it was turned off, I of course dismissed such a fanciful notion out of hand as a scientific impossibility. I looked back to the men gathered around the drawer only to realize that DI Tyler was also staring at the Tranny.

After they had all left and I had begun to breathe again, DI Tyler suddenly stepped back into the room.

"You heard it too, didn't you, on the radio?" I stared back at him nonplussed and he cocked his head to one side staring at me. "We'll talk again Oswald."

I could hear the clicking of his boot heels in the corridor as he walked away.

 

oo0oo

 

After that, I accelerated the work on my new conveyance, cutting back further on my hours of sleep, determined to be gone before the strange new DI could examine my current circumstances too closely.

During this time, I worked late into the night and became aware that DCI Hunt and DI Tyler were conducting secret meetings in the Collator's Den. The whole station had breathed a collective sigh of relief as they'd hammered out a productive working relationship and yet I was the only one privy to where that hammering was actually taking place. I would hear muffled voices engaged in loud debate, what sounded like one or the other of them being hurled into the furniture and on more than one occasion, their invoking the Lord's name against each other. Still, while I might disapprove of their methods, I did applaud their efforts to conceal their disagreements from the rest of the men.

 

oo0oo

 

Then came the night I knew my machine was complete and I was ready to recommence my travels. I had taken a few hours to make sure the laboratories papers were in order and to write a letter of resignation. I did not, after all, want the Manchester Constabulary to waste any valuable time looking for me.

I had climbed into the saddle and had begun to depress the levers when DI Tyler walked through the doorway of the store cupboard I had failed to lock behind me in my hurry to depart.

"Fucking hell, you've got to be bloody kidding me!" He walked toward me, waving his arms in a most alarming fashion. "I read about this in school, but I never thought I'd see it."

"Please maintain a safe distance, DI Tyler."

As he paused, I leaned further forward on the lever speeding my departure. As the room faded around me I heard him yell one last thing, "Watch your back, the Morlocks are butchers!"

Even now, eons after we crossed paths, I still wonder how DI Tyler could have known.

.


End file.
